Best day at the track: Thank you, Pick 6 Eddie

Arlington Hotel
Arlington Hotel in Hot Springs, Arkansas

The lobby of the Arlington Hotel in Hot Springs, Ark., serves many purposes. It’s the spillover seating for the bar off to the side. There’s a band shell for music and evening dancing, and during the day it serves as a waiting room for those checking into this majestic and old – mostly old – remnant of the late 19th Century.

Arlington bar
The Arlington Hotel bar

The clerk who helped me check in was enthusiastic about all Hot Springs had to offer, although he mostly rained on my ideas for a one-day visit here. Hot springs out in the wilds? No, all the waters have been long ago captured and fed into spas and bath houses. The only place on Bath House Row that still offers “waters” is the Buckstaff Baths. There are spa offerings available at hotel, which did not fit into my schedule.

Buckstaff

What’s the most popular activity for people to do at this national park? Get out and take a hike, see the natural beauty of Arkansas. Would it match the natural beauty of the Pacific Northwest?

Let’s face it, I was only being polite. The clerk didn’t need to feel bad about my refusal to engage in hiking or taking in the waters as he suggested. My real reason for coming to Hot Springs was to attend the races at Oaklawn Racing Casino Resort.

I bought a Daily Racing Form (DRF) at the front desk (how many hotels can you do that?) and walked off to my room with the paint peeling from the walls. Clean, but old – mostly old. Studied the form and then headed down Saturday morning to the best use of the Arlington lobby. Every morning before the races, Eddie “Pick 6” Pannell offers his advice on the day’s card.

Pick 6
Eddie “Pick 6” Pannell in the Arlington lobby

He starts out asking if anyone in the crowd bets horse according to the horse’s names. A few raised their hands, and I could have held up a finger or two since it is something I rarely do. But once in a while a name pops up so much like mine that I can’t pass it up. On those races, I accept that I will bet the name, the urge so strong that it will bias my handicapping so much that I can’t get through the past performances without going back and confirming my namesake has the best chance of winning, three-legged horse or not. I settle for the name and hope for the best, which hardly ever comes my way. Johnny Five? How could I pass on that? A moderate bet for a two-dollar bettor like me, and the horse veers immediately out of Seattle’s Emerald Downs starting gate, unseats his rider and hits the rail, rolling over it into the infield. Could be a horse high jumper, but in Thoroughbred racing that is DNF: Did Not Finish. (Next time Johnny Five ran, he won and paid $8.80, and I was nowhere near a track or off-track betting).

Never follow my bets. I could not do what Pick 6 was doing, offering tips on four-legged animals who seem to do what they want not what the Daily Racing Form says they should. I’d feel too guilty about anyone who took my handicapping advice and then a subsequent financial bath.

Pick 6 warned us about betting names and omens:

“I woke up right at five o’clock in the morning, looked out my window and saw five bluebirds singing on the telephone line. I was on the fifth floor of the hotel in Room 555. I put on my pants and found I only had five dollars left to my name. Got out my form and saw that in the fifth race there was a horse named Henry the Fifth. Took the No. 5 bus to the track and used all five dollars to bet on Henry the Fifth to win. Stood in the fifth row up from the rail and watched him come in fifth.”

I paid particular attention to what he said about races two, three and four because I figured on exploring the track on my first visit there, wandering the food stands, restaurants, betting windows and the casino – people watching instead of horse watching. So after a brisk two-mile walk, partly along the Grand Promenade behind Bath House Row, to Oaklawn, I figured I had the info I needed to fill in for what I had not handicapped. I did races one, five through nine, neglecting the last race of the day because it’s usually filled with what’s left over.

Broadwalk
Hot Springs Broadwalk

Race one went with my pick, Audacious Angel, showing no interest in racing today while Pick 6 Eddie’s choice, Heavens Whisper, won by one and three quarters lengths. I lose eight bucks on that race. OK, I’m a two-dollar bettor but sometimes those two-dollar bets are times four. Looking at Pick 6 Eddie’s winner, I figured I could rely on him to see me through the next three races I had neglected.

What a disaster. Not only did Pick 6 let me down, but the teller at the betting window seemed to be in cahoots to make my day at Oaklawn a bust. Eddie liked Rosemary Beach as one to pair up in the Exacta (betting the top two horses to finish in order) with others he thought would be in the top two. I’m sure I told the teller I wanted #11 (Rosemary Beach) paired with Eddie’s five horses. I’m sure I told the teller I wanted #11 (Rosemary Beach) paired with 1, 2, 5, 7, 10. That would be five one-dollar bets (11 with 1, 11 with 2, 11 with 5, etc) or $10 in bets if you reversed the bet or “boxed” it (1 with 11, 2 with 11, etc), which I did. If the 11 comes in first or second, I collect winnings, hoping for the longest odds to pair up with Rosemary Beach to enhance the payoff. Instead, the teller seemed to have written it as all six horses boxed together, or something like that. I still can’t figure out how my $10 bet ended up costing $30. Maybe I did not speak Arkansese well enough. Like the sign says at the window, “Always check tickets before leaving.”

I did not.

The #12 (Dabinawa Dove) came in second to Rosemary Beach, and Pick 6 Eddie had overlooked this 68-1 long shot who had only run one race so poorly it earned no Beyers points (you can look that up). The Exacta paid $56.80, the Trifecta (top three horse in order) paid $325 and the Superfecta (top four horse in order) paid $595. And we had not a cent of any of it. Only a dove would bet that horse.

I had not abandoned all hope in Eddie just yet. He had suggested another bet that seemed worth doing – betting the 50 cent Pick 3, naming the winner in three consecutive races. Put in three horses in each race as possible winners and the total bet is $13.50 (my two dollar bet times 6.75), but the payoff, Eddie said, could be grand if something other than a favorite won one of the three races. My picks for races 2, 3 and 4 were (11-7-1) with (8, 6, 5) with (2, 4, 5). Rosemary Beach came through in the second, Frost or Frippery won the third and all I needed in the fourth race, thanks to Eddie, were to see Trail Boss, Wild Haven or French Dancer cross the line first. Eddie did not recognize the worth of #3, Ludington, who won the fourth race and had me down $51.50 after four races, the Great Recession all over again for a wayward two-dollar bettor.

What would the Pick 3 pay? Who cared? I had none of it, although Eddie and I got two thirds of the way through it before our trio refused to play along. Maybe if I used his bets with my horses. I could climb out of this recession with a few wins, which, as soon as I thought it, struck me as the losing gamblers’ fatal flaw and phrase: ”Stay and win back my losses,” which usually means losing everything in your pocket and, hopefully, never have an ATM card anywhere near you.

There’s always some truth in those sayings about what the “normal” gaming addict would do: Like bet $22 on the next race and win $10.80, a normal routine for me at the racetrack. Flatoutcountry came through to win, but all my horses in my exotic bets (Exacta, etc) never made the tote board thanks to Flashy Biz at 14-1 and Letters to Belle, which “couldn’t last,” according to the DRF. In it’s last race, a DNF and 0 in Beyers. Never finished better than sixth. Will the one person named Belle stand up and share some of the money they won on this 47-1 horse?

Down another $12 and figured out what I could lose: no more than $100 or I would have to check out of the Arlington and sleep in the truck.

In for $10.40 in the race with all depending on B.B. Dude, running his first race since getting gelded. Always bet those horses since now they can keep their minds on racing. The Dude did not abide. He finished sixth, perhaps fretting over love’s labors lost.

We’re up in the 70-dollar range now in money lost, $73.10 to be exact, although they say to never count your money at the table, especially if doing so makes you want to faint or break down weeping. But I bucked up, or maybe start that “uck” word with an F. Time to go all in or go home. Into the seventh race we march, armed with a win ticket on Box of Chocolates and a 10 cent Superfecta boxed filled out by Better Charge It, Kinetic Swagger and Rocknroll Rocket. Plus, we have renewed Eddie’s Pick 3 idea for races seven, eight and nine. In for a total of $27.50, including the Pick 3. We’re 60 cents over saying goodbye to a Ben Franklin, and thank God I have legs enough and don’t need bus fare to walk to my overnight accommodations in my truck.

Eddie had liked Box of Chocolates because of breeding (by Candy Ride – the sire – out of Lady Godiva – the mare). When talking in the Arlington lobby, he hadn’t said anything about breeding until handicapping the seventh race. He said he mostly used it when judging first time starters. This is what he said about breeding:

“Three people were sitting in a bar, each having a glass of wine. When the Frenchman noticed a fly in his glass, he drank the wine right down. When the Englishman saw a fly in his wine, he ordered the waiter over and said this was an abomination and demanded another glass. Then the Irishman noticed a fly in his wine. He immediately reached in, grabbed the fly by its hindquarters and held it over the glass, shouting, ‘Spit it back! Spit it back!’”

That’s what I know about horse breeding.

I liked Box of Chocolates for having the best Beyer numbers in the field at this distance (a mile) and at this level: Maiden race for 3-year-olds with $47,000 in purse money. Also drew the top jock at the meet, Ricardo Santana, Jr.

Whether breeding, best Beyer, top jock or all of the above, Box of Chocolate won, and the supporting cast in my Superfecta also played their parts very well, making it into the top four places. Payoff for that race was $27.09, just 41 cents short of what I needed to cover my bets, including the Pick 3, which as still alive and now paid for.

We’re only down $73.51, but almost winning back what I bet seemed almost even. What would it take to make me even? Eddie asked that question once to another top handicapper he knew. “How far ahead are you?” the handicapper asked right back.

I had No. 3 to win (Bebop Shoes. Who could resist?) in the eighth. Not just for the name, of course, I rarely do that. First, second and third in the last three races, including a stakes for $100,000 and two races at $83,000. The race today is an allowance (you can look it up) for $91,000, and Bebop Shoes has won at a higher level with higher Beyers numbers.

He did not win.

He was beaten by a neck by J.E.’s Handmedown. Which turned out to be a good thing. I had bet J.E. Handmedown, with longer odds, in my Exacta, my Superfecta and in my Pick 3, which had one more race to go. Bebop Shoes and J.E. Handmedown paid $21.60 in the Exacta, and the Superfecta completed by Bandit Point at third and Absolutely Aiden at fourth, a horse I had on my loser list – yes, I keep lists. I had seen his last race when he came in eight out of eight, fading badly from an upfront position. Pannell was high on him because of his first-time-starter win at Saratoga. I included him reluctantly after someone in the Arlington lobby that morning said he saw the loser race and thought he saw the saddle slip when the horse started going backwards.

I won $85.99, which put me $2.08 ahead. As much as I wanted to take credit for this – filling Eddie’s betting system with my horses – I realized that without his backing of Absolutely Aiden in the Superfecta I would have missed the payoff that made me a little bit ahead.

In the ninth race, all I had to do was hope that Nos. 3, 4 or 7 won the race. I didn’t handicap this race because of Classy John, No. 3 in your program. Had to go with him, and forget facing the past performances with a clear head. Back to relying on Pannell’s picks: five of the eight horse in the race got commented on, with this on Classy John: “Maybe. . . maybe, No. 3.” Added his top two with No. 3: Nitrous and Frosted Ice.

Many of the horses in this race had been in prep races for the Kentucky Derby, running in the Rebel Stakes at Oaklawn and other stakes. None of them had moved on to Louisville and Churchill Downs but were here competing in the Bachelor Stakes for $150,000 in purse money. Classy John had come in seventh in the Rebel and no one but someone named John would bet him.

He got to third early in the race and then started falling behind. I watched him fade to fifth and then saw him cross the finish line in sixth. Frosted Ice was nowhere in the top four, and I said out loud, “What happened to No. 4?”

“No. 4 won. Didn’t you see?” said the unknown person beside me who probably was not named John or busy watching No. 3. Turned out that while Classy John was fading, Nitrous was closing the gap from sixth with a half mile to go, to fourth at the start of the stretch and on to win by one and three quarters lengths.

Thanks, Eddie “Pick 6” Pannell, for the $75.50 Pick 3 payoff.

Lund
Valorie Lund with the red hair.

And there was more to come. Pannell had mentioned Valorie Lund as a great trainer. She used to train at Emerald Downs and is, in fact, a great trainer. I might have noticed that if I ever handicapped the last race of the day. But picking Tie.jpgthis winner would mean overturning some deep-seated belief that horse bettors carry around like ticks embedded in some hidden folds of skin they can’t see; I’ll not say where. Betting Ship it Red, trained by V. Lund, to win added another $12.20 to my wallet for a total winning for the day of $85.78.

A profitable use of the Arlington lobby for that Saturday, and every time I wear my “Bringing Up the Rear” tie that I bought at the Oaklawn gift shop, I’ll thank Eddie “Pick 6” Pannell for my best day at the track and his good advice on horse names, omens and breeding.

Me tie

 

On the Smith River with a Spotter scared . . . spitless

This is a story about rafting a river with a Spotter who is scared spitless.

Wait, I misspelled that last word.

The spotter is supposed to look out for rocks and snags in the river, telling the rower to move around the hazards.

So the Spotter and Rower started out fine the first day on the Smith River in Montana. The flows were high but not so high to cancel the trip as we did a year ago. After four years of trying to get a permit, one of our six applicants (all put in for same date, whoever wins takes us all), finally got one. Last year we tried to go on a permit that had been canceled by someone who backed out, as we did when the floods came.

Our leader
Our leader

On our first day at Camp Baker, the put-in spot, we got the briefing from Laura our Leader. Face the danger. Back away from it. Go sideways down the river. Follow the bubbles that indicate current.

A rough landing at our first camp, Lower Scotty Allen campsite, after 12 miles and three hours rowing, but we didn’t overshoot it and go downstream. Fresh vegetables that night for dinner. Weather chilly but clear; the expected rain never showed up.

Next morning: snow. On the 8th of June. So we waited it out, got things mostly dry, packed up and pushed off into something called the “Rock Garden.”

There were rocks – so many that the Spotter went panicky. “There’s a rock. Go back. Back. Back, back, back. BACK, I say!”

So we backed into the bank behind us, spun around, got oars tangled in brush, hit rocks any way. More rocks, more backing. Trying to row forward to avoid hitting the back bank. Final indignity was getting hung up on a rock, trying to get off it before current toppled us. Finally pulled an oar from the oarlock and pushed us off the rock protruding in the middle of our raft. We went to the garden alone while the waves were still on the rocks until we came spinning around a corner and there was Laura, standing hands crossed across her chest before grabbing our bow line.

“I’m scared to death watching you two. I thought I was going to have a heart attack. What are you doing?”

The briefing at Camp Baker now delivered as a lecture:

“Face the danger. Back away from it. Turn the boat and row backwards. Trying to row forward gets you little. You’re working too hard at rowing. Let the river do the work. Stay in the center of the river, not bouncing off the sides. Miss rocks by 20 inches, not 20 feet. I don’t want to see my friends die.”

Which was never my intention, although the Spotter may have had some doubts.

We got back in our boats, a bit chagrined. But we had listened and tried to do better on spotting, rowing and communicating, which we did. Miss the rocks, do better on two-oared turns to face the danger. Watch my back side so that I don’t plow into something worst that what we were trying to avoid up front. No yelling at each other either out of fear or anger. Miss the rocks by 20 inches and settle in for the nice parts of the ride.

That did not include hail while on the river that day before we landed (better but not perfect) at Lower Sunset Cliffs 14 miles downstream and three and a half hours rowing.

Then the weather got better, and we got better at controlling the raft and could turn our attention to . . .

The birds we saw: the Great Horned Owl (staring from a cave on the side of the river – the best sighting of the trip), red hawk, dippers, yellowtails, tanagers, Canada geese (plenty of them), mergansers, catbirds, crows, magpie, red-winged blackbirds, meadowlarks, Swainson thrush, chickadees, Sand hill crane, bluebirds, eagles, mallard ducks and, heard but not seen, wild turkeys.

The animals: Deer, beaver, one quick sighting of a bear by one member.

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The great campsites Laura had picked out: From Lower Scotty Allen to Lower Sunset Cliffs to Upper Parker Flats to Ridgetop. With all the accommodations of home (see above).

Sock drier
Chris’ sock dryer

To great food: The fresh vegetables the first night (always a treat on a camping trip in the wilds), the Spotter’s Everything but the Kitchen Sink Turkey Dish, Chris’ pasta with fresh asparagus and the smorgasbord the last night of ham, Madras lentils and leftover pasta (Indian spaghetti).

To an interesting incident on the last day that would have sent our Spotter crazy if it had happened to us (me, too) but seemed to be taken in stride by the party experiencing it: We spent our last night at Ridgetop, which was more crowded than our other camps. We got there early after two hours of rowing to cover eight miles on the river. Things went along peacefully until late afternoon when other campers showed up for the sites nearby us. It was the only campsite where we could even see other campers. In the middle of cooking our dinner, I started to hear music playing – not out here, please. As Chris said, “There goes the neighborhood.” He was down at the river and realized “Free Falling” by Tom Petty was coming from an orange raft floating down the middle of the river – and there was no one in the raft, Tom Petty or otherwise.

Then people came racing along the bank and just before the curve downstream, a man jumped in the river and tried to swim for the raft. Cold river, strong current and a runaway raft with the campers’ gear heading rapidly downstream. Not a good combination. The swimmer almost got a hold of the raft before it rounded the bend, went into the strong current on the far side of the turn (following the bubbles) and went sailing away. Fortunately, the swimmer made it to the other side of the river and climbed out.

A raft was rowed across the river to pick up the swimmer who would have to figure out how to get through the night with no gear. Another raft went by and asked what was going on. A loose raft. “The beer boat?” he asked. Yep. “That happens a lot.”

Amazed by the others in the party who didn’t seem too upset by all this. “Never leave your boat untied,” said Laura, another good piece of advice.

We found out at the take-out the next day that campers downstream heard the music, ran out to investigate and pulled the delinquent raft ashore. Thanks for the warning, Tom Petty.

We talked about the incident that night, and how terrified our Spotter would have been if that had happened to us. But through the talk, we came to the agreement that we could do this thing together again, no questions asked.

Spotter
The Spotter

Well, maybe one: Why, Ms. Terrified Spotter, did you agree to go on this trip?

“This,” she said,” is the last thing I would chose to do if I were not married to this idiot.”

Signed,

The Idiot

Camp resident

Waders

 

 

 

Why can’t you get a Runza outside of Nebraska?

Runza
Most people take pictures of their food before they eat them, but I could not wait.

First time I heard about Runza was in Ogallala, NE, when a car salesman told me to go get one while my new car was being prepared for me to continue my drive to Arkansas in 2015.

So I went there in a loaned car and had beef, cabbage and onions wrapped in homemade bread. It’s been that way since 1949 when Sally Everett started selling them from a carhop stand in Lincoln, NE.

Then her son, Don, franchised the restaurants, sold Runza across from Memorial Stadium until he moved inside and started selling them from food trucks.

Now there are 80 locations – all within the state of Nebraska. Why not expand outside the state? A question they must hear a lot. So at the Runza in McCook, NE, there is a sign that answers that question:

“Well, we don’t want to be the largest restaurant chain around. We do want to be among the best. That’s why we pour our heart and soul into every store. To maintain this level of hands-on support, proximity plays an important role in our growth strategy.”

Even if you love beef and cabbage, it’s probably not worth driving to Nebraska. But if you are passing through, stop.

Sally Everett
From a handout at the McCook, NE, Runza.

Out ahead of lightning, thunder and rising water

Ian in rain
Ian about to launch on a rainy morning. Sorry about the rain on the lense.

Buffalo River III, Third day — When sleeping in a tent, there’s nothing like a peal of thunder and a flash of lightning to get you up in the morning – especially when it is 1:30 a.m and still dark outside.

That’s what woke us up on our third day on the Buffalo River in Arkansas. The nice thing about the lightning flashes is that you can see how much it is raining. In this case it was one of those big-drop rainfalls that spent the next five hours forming puddles around and then under my tent. So far my MSR one-man tent has always kept me dry without a ground cloth underneath it. I’ve heard too many stories about wet campers from the under liner sticking out from under the tent and collecting pools that come inside. But having now experienced what can happened when water pools under your no-ground-cloth-for-me tent, I can say that a custom cut tarp goes with me the next time.

I had planned to stay snuggled in my sleeping bag and tent until the rain stopped (sometime in August?). But when Ian was outside asking, “Are you awake in there” at 6 a.m., my dry spot in the tent had dwindled to an area almost big enough for me in a fetal position – almost. Foot of the sleeping bag sopping wet. Starting to leak around my head. Time to get up.

Out in rain
Last two miles of the Buffalo River in the rain.

We bundled up wet tents, sleeping bags (for me), clothes and were on the water in rain gear by 7:30 a.m. We had planned the trip to have only a few miles left to paddle on the last day. Which worked out even better in the pouring rain.

Riley’s Dock, our take-out spot, was across the White River from where the Buffalo River empties into it. We chose this as our end spot at the suggestion of Dirst Canoe Rental, which shuttled my truck from Buffalo Point to here. It avoided a half-mile upstream paddle on the White, which could be flowing big time if the Bull Shoals Dam 10 miles up the river was open. Or, we could have paddled downstream on the White five miles or so.

Riley Dock mapBut to get to Riley’s Dock, all you had to do was turn left as you came into the White, paddle 200 yards or so upstream and then drift across the river onto the far side of Smith Island. The dock would be nestled behind a smaller island on the other side. My left turn did not work and I ended more out in the White than I wanted to be. But I remembered Jack, our canoe pod leader on the Willamette River trip in Oregon, telling us about making your kayak into an airplane wing: Angled upstream across the river and with water pushing against your kayak on one side but not on the other, you’ve created a vacuum that keeps planes up in the air and your kayak pushing upstream against the current. And it worked. Still had to paddle, but I rounded Smith Island and headed for home.

Ian made the left turn, got high enough upstream to turn right and dash across on a downstream slant, arriving at the dock just before me.

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Riley’s Dock

Great people at Riley’s Dock. Five bucks to back the truck down the boat ramp to unload kayaks, and they offered a warm, dry cabin for us to change out of wet clothing.

Tide stick
Ian’s tide water marker a yard or so off the river.

Ian had set out tidewater stakes at our campsite the night before to see how far the river might come up. No noticeable change when we got up this morning, but the folks at Riley’s Dock said the rise in the river was now in Ponca, 130 miles or so up the river.

“It will be here this afternoon,” they said.

Toad
Two toads slept under my tent the last night.

And boy did it. I dropped Ian in Springfield, MO, for his flight back to Seattle, and he messaged me later that the river had gone up 12 feet that day. With or without ground cloth, my tent would not have had a dry spot big enough for the toads that jumped out from under it this morning.

We hit it just right. We started on April 29, when the river was dropping below six feet of gage height – above that and rangers recommend only experienced paddlers on the river. It kept dropping on April 30, but then look at the line shooting up on May 1, almost to 18 feet by the end of the day. We’d have been in New Orleans by the end of the week.

Buffalo River feet gauge

 

 

 

 

A calm day with no haystacks in sight

Second day on Buffalo River, Arkansas, Part III — We were up early – around 6 a.m. – but spent a long time at breakfast, getting our gear in order, loading the boats and finally launching around 8:45. We had pored over our maps and figured out that we had paddled up Big Creek on the first day while searching for the Cold Springs schoolhouse, which we never found. The paddle upstream was a hard one, probably because Big Creek is the second largest tributary to the Buffalo River adding nine percent of the full load. Still, it was nice to figure out where we were.

Some wind today but the current kept us going whether we paddled or not. A couple of ripples that kept us on our toes but nothing like at Clabber Creek Shoal on the first day.

Elephant
Standing in front of Elephant Head. I think I am looking serious because of the huge responsibility of taking the selfie.

We used Elephant Head rock as a place we would know exactly where we were on the map. How could anyone miss a 210-foot high rock shaped like an elephant? We paddled another mile or two and stopped in front of Grayface Bluff. Ian suggested we set up the tents first, and it was a good thing we did as we retired to them as some big-drop rains fell on us.

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Our second camp, up high in the sand and rocks.

Once outside in the evening, Ian put his book away and watched the buzzard and occasional eagles overhead. “I can read anytime, but when can I watch buzzard playing in the thermals on a bluff over the river” We wondered if they were scouting for carrion to make a group meal or if they were drifting back and forth over the bluff for fun, which is what we agreed we’d be doing.

 

Why are there haystacks in the middle of the Buffalo River?

(Ian admits the sound in the video above is terrible, but what I am saying is we are starting a 30-mile float trip on the Buffalo River in Arkansas and the bridge behind me was underwater in the 1982 flood.)

The guidebook describes the Clabber Creek Shoal as the “wildest rapids of the lower river.”

That’s a lie.

It’s the wildest rapid on all 135 miles of the Buffalo River in Arkansas, from Ponca down to the White River. I know because after my third trip there recently, I have floated all those miles over all those rapids.

The book “Buffalo River Handbook” by Kenneth L. Smith, talks about Clabber Creek Shoal current going right, then left, don’t get swept into the right bank and don’t get swamped by the haystacks.

Haystacks? Odd thing to have in the river.

Since then I have learned that “haystack” waves are not like the riffles, wave trains and strainers and stags I had glided happily over or have avoided on previous trips on the Buffalo. Haystacks don’t move downstream as you do; they stay right there where some underwater rock – or rocks – put them.

I, in my ignorance and hubris, figured I’d have no problem. Even a 275-prop will come down if you aim your tackle low enough.

No problem avoiding the right bank. On to the haystack waves, bow first and over the top as I always once did. I got up and over one. Sloughed through another and looked into the base of a Cecil B. DeMille wave. Sometimes the prop runs over you, and the Red Sea wave wins no matter where you aim your attack.

It flicked my kayak over to the left, and I remembered two things as the kayak turned: Stay with the boat and don’t lose your paddle. Fortunately, all my belongings were well attached. Dry bags, water jugs and carabiners all held to my new shock cords. My hatch cover leaked some, but tent, sleeping bag, camp chairs and coats (a bit damp) all stayed aboard.

The only things dumped into the river were unattached: the map case, my Stanley coffee thermos and me.

I pulled myself up over the overturned boat with my paddle in hand and peeked over the hull to see my thermos headed for the goal line. Kicking for shore with two legs and one arm as down the river we went.

Ian, my partner, took his kayak to the left of the haystacks, stayed upright and then did things in the right order. First getting the map case, then the thermos and finally towing me and kayak the last few yards to shore.

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Mostly wet and checking my fogged binoculars. Photo by Ian Gunn

The underwater camera seems to be working fine, but looking through the binoculars (in the pocket of my life vest, which I was wearing) is like examining a one-celled animal swishing around on a fogged microscope slide.

Up until then, the trip had gone swimmingly. We launched at Dillard Ferry, upstream from Buffalo Point, and got to what we thought would be our first night’s camping spot at noon. So we decided to push on to the second night camp spot. We needed the rescued maps and Ian’s GPS to try to find it, and never did. But it’s hard to get lost when the river is pushing you downstream.

First camp
First night’s campsite.

We found a great campsite but unfortunately followed some awful campers. Fire still smoldering, cigarette butts everywhere, soap and other trash strewn around and the TP flowers nearby with their white and brown blossoms.

Rekindled the fire, dried out clothes in sun, cooked, ate, read and to bed in skivvies – although the long johns are nearby.

Also see “Clobbered at Clabber Creek

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Cruising by Painted Bluff. Photo by Ian Gunn.
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Not a haystack wave in sight. Photo by Ian Gunn.

 

Traveling in the land of long-sticked squeegee poles

Long stick

Traveling in the past couple weeks in the land of long poled squeegees where you can mop the suds off your truck windshield without standing on your tire or reaching through your opened front door. Out of the short-sticked cities like Seattle, Denver, Wichita, Omaha and Kansas City, and out into the Midwest countryside to visit Huntington, OR; Flagler, CO; Fall River, KS; Iola, KS; and Chadron, NE, in a two week drive to a float trip on the Buffalo River in northern Arkansas.

Flagler
Camping near Flagler, CO.

“Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,

Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.”

Thank you, Walt, and I’m sure you would appreciate a trip across America to look at the country and “check on the crops,” as my parents and grandparents used to say before starting out on each evening’s drive.

From driveway to driveway clocked 4,047 miles across 13 states, listened to all my songs from “Nada de Nada” by Braho to Paul Robeson’s version of the “Song of the Volga Boatmen.” Became a fan of Michael Smerconish on Sirius Radio and wondered how long a stick Mark Levin was sitting on. That yelp, that nasty attitude.

Farmers just poking their heads out to prepare grounds for planting. Past fields of green wheat, corn stubble and one large field of uncut soybeans, perhaps not worth the harvest expense when penciled against the crop prices undercut by tariffs.

Fall River
Sunrise at Fall River State Park, KS.

Oil wells starting in Russell, KS, which led to the question: What are they pumping into? Never anything there that looks like it could hold as much as a 55-gallon barrel. Underground?

Also went against the advice of the President and took a big risk of cancer by driving through the wind turbines near Sylvan Grove, KS. But worth it to get out of southern Wyoming. Every land has something of value, something worth looking at, but southern Wyoming from Evanston to Cheyenne may come the closest to that know-nothing description used by transportation planners and realtors: “vacant land.” All I can say for this trip is that it wasn’t snowing and Interstate 80 was open.

But enough of criticism:

“Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,

Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,

Strong and content I travel the open road.”

Because of a late rain on our river trip (more in a later post), I was on the road a day early for my return trip but not early enough to reach my favorite Indian casino in Sloan, IA, the WinnaVegas Casino Resort, before dark. (How can you see America in the dark?) A large casino in a large field where patrons the last time I was there were talking about harvesting corn while a short lady threw tens from arms that barely cleared the rail around the dice table. They bet hard tens, I stayed on the pass line.

MapsWithout the planned trip to WinnaVegas, that meant I could strike out anywhere on my path back to short-sticked Seattle. Getting out the maps, I noticed that U.S. Highway 24 goes all the way across the state of Kansas.

Route 24 was a big deal in my childhood and an even bigger one later when its expansion looked like it would go through our farmland. My bumper sticker showing a highway sign of Hwy. 24 with a prohibited mark over it perplexed many in Seattle. But that battle is over and done with, and there will be no remorse, no hard feelings here.

“They pass, I also pass, any thing passes, none can be interdicted,

None but are accepted, none but shall be dear to me.”

 Compared to one-lane rural roads in Northwest Ohio, 24 could handle barreling semis, brook no stop signs and travel on to Toledo in one direction and who knew where in the other. Turns out it may be the only thing that connects Toledo, OH, with Vail, CO. Hard to imagine someone in Vail building a road to Toledo. More likely the other way around.

“Don’t ride your bikes on 24,” my folks said.

“We drove on 24 in drivers’ training class today,” we said after scaring Mr. Bard half to death as we traveled further to getting our licenses.

So from Rossville, KS, to just past Menlo, KS, where I turned north to head into Nebraska, I drove on 24, a two-lane blacktop except where planners decided to take some vacant land from some farmer and add two more rows of concrete (Oops, I forgot. No more whimpering). With Mrs. Mabel Apple in the GPS forever telling me to turn left and get on Interstate 70, it was just like Mom saying, “Don’t ride on 24.”

But I did.

“Allons! the road is before us!

It is safe—I have tried it—my own feet have tried it well—be not detain’d!”

(“Song of the Open Road,” Walt Whitman)

Route 24

New Seawolves faces, same results — a win

Lost

Lost 2
What it looks like when the lineout is lost: Ball overthrown and the Houston, in yellow, take it.

Some new names in the Seattle Seawolves professional rugby team’s starting lineup Sunday night, but the same results – another win.

This one against the Houston Sabercats, 27-14. at Starfire Stadium in Tukwila, WA.

Scoring in the first half was limited to a penalty kick by Seawolves’ Brock Staller, and a try by Houston after they stole a Seattle lineout, won a scrum, scurried the ball out to the backs and Osea Kolinisan scored in the corner. Sam Windsor uncharacteristically missed the conversion kick but added a penalty later after Seattle failed to release a tackled player. The half ended 3-8 with Houston ahead.

Seattle stayed on the Houston side of the field in the first half but found every way in rugby to loose the ball, the momentum and scoring opportunities – offside penalties, lost lineouts, knock-ons, ball not thrown in straight in the lineout and giving up the ball in their own loose rucks.

A long run by Eric Duechle looked like it might overcome the scattered play as he broke through several tackles and flopped into the try zone, slamming the ball behind him. Looked like a try, but the referee called it a dribble – didn’t touch the ball down to score – and a Houston player picked up the ball and ran it out of trouble.

With six minutes gone in the second half, the Seawolves took the lead again on a maul off their own lineout when Jeremy Lenaerts touched down for five points. Staller converted for two more.

Then it looked like the kicks by Staller and Windsor would decide the game. Windsor slotted a penalty kick after Seattle was offside to lead 10-11. Minutes later, Staller put up three more points after Houston was offside – 13-11. Staller had two more penalty attempts but missed them.

After a Seattle player entered the loose ruck from the side, Windsor connected to put Houston up, 13-14.

And that was it for Houston as the Seawolves took over the last 10 minutes of the game. The forwards pushed the ball down to just short of the Houston try line before getting the ball out, spotting one well aimed pass and Sequoyah Burke-Combs got the ball down just inside the out-of-bounds pylon. Staller kicked the conversion from the corner.

Duechle made up for that dribble earlier, running beneath an up-and-under kick, gathering in a deflected catch and holding off tacklers before touching down. Staller’s kick was good for a 27-14 win.

Houston has only won one game, but for Seattle it has to feel good to win without some of their regular players. Phil Mack played for Canada Friday night against the USA national team at Starfire. J.P. Smith filled in well for him at scrum half. Kellen Gordon, Dan Trierweiler and John Hayden spelled Stephan Coetzee and Tim Metcher. Oli Kilifi, who had played Friday night for the USA Eagles, sat out until well into the second half. Ben Cima and Peter Tiberio shuffled the stand-off and fullback positions for missing Matt Turner, the usual fullback.

With four wins and two losses and 20 table points, the Seawolves are right behind the New Orleans Gold, who have only played five games to collect 21 points. Right behind Seattle is the Glendale, Colo., team with 20 table points and a 3-2-1 record.

The Seawolves are back at Starfire Stadium on March 31 against the San Diego Legion, who saw the Toronto Arrows score 24 points in the second half Sunday night to win 27-20.

Next Saturday, Seattle is at Austin, who have yet to win a game this season. The game will be on ROOTS-TV. Seawolves have a bye on the weekend of March 23-24.

Won

Won 2.jpg
When the lineout is won: Ball straight to jumper, then on to the scrum half.

Why aren’t U.S. national rugby games on TV?

The Friday night game between the United States and Canada’s national rugby teams had eight lead changes and four times during the match when the opponents were separated by one point before the U.S. Eagles ran in a last minute try to win 30-25.

It was, as a first-time rugby viewer said afterwards, a “great match.”

Which leads to this question: Right now I can go out in the TV room and watch Scotland host Wales; Italy versus England is next and the Vancouver Sevens prelims will be on later this afternoon. Six Nations coverage continues tomorrow with France at Ireland and the Major League Rugby is on with San Diego at Toronto and then Houston at Seattle’s home team, the Seawolves, at Starfire Stadium in Tukwila, another sellout.

So why wasn’t the great match between the U.S. Eagles and the Canadians on TV, cable or otherwise where I don’t have to pay premium boxing/wrestling/martial arts fees to watch? At least having it on TV would get it into the local newspaper’s TV listing to show that an international match is happening right here in River City.

Wasn’t ignored on KING-TV, who did a great article on the two Seattle Seawolves who played in last night’s game at Starfire:

https://www.king5.com/article/sports/seawolves-teammates-on-opposing-sides-of-championship-game/281-8dacf189-b5e1-4660-9638-c42af8a76b36

The Eagles have three more games over the summer in the Pacific Nation Cup before they head into the Rugby World Cup in Japan in September. Will those games be on TV?

 

Let’s stop the clock for penalty, conversion kicks in rugby

Too much kicking and not enough tackling left the United States national rugby team down 32-25 to the Uruguayan team Saturday night at Starfire Stadium in Tukwila.

Straight ahead running by the Uruguay backs had a lot to do with the South American team’s victory in the American Rugby Championship.

The U.S. Eagles kicked away possession and saw the Uruguayan back cutting through their defense. The only way the U.S. team could score was from mauls from their own lineouts with Joe Taufete’e, the hooker, scoring three tries.

Uruguay led 19-13 at half, put up another try early in the second half (24-13) before Taufete’s scored his third try (24-18).

One more try by the Uruguayan backs before the U.S. got untangled enough to run in a try (29-25). With a minute to go, Uruguay chose to take a penalty kick and frittered away the minute so that when the ball flew through the uprights the game was over, 32-25.

It might as well have been like taking a knee in slow football: The Uruguayan kicker got a drink of water from the trainer, lined up the ball, hesitated, hesitated and finally kicked it as the clock ran out.

My suggestion: Stop the clock for penalty kicks and conversions. The kickers take too long and burn up too many minutes.

Stop the clock when a try is scored and restart it after the conversion kick is taken.

Same with a penalty: When the team decides to kick for goal, stop the clock and restart it when the play resumes.

Why let the dawdling kicker run down minutes off the clock while he is waiting for the tee to be brought in, adjusting the ball on a tee as big as a traffic cone, scraping his feet on the turf, backing up, taking three steps to the side, grimacing or doing other facial contortions and finally approaching and putting foot to ball.

Let’s spend that time running, scrummaging, tackling, scoring tries and playing rugby.

More international rugby at Starfire Friday night at 7 when the U.S. Eagles take on the Canadian national team.